Stray Pearls eBook

M. de Solivet promised that I should, but we had long
to wait, for the saintly Abbe de Paul would not postpone
the poor to the rich; nor could my grief claim the
precedence, for I was not the only broken-hearted
young widow in France, nor even in that little village.

I cannot be grateful enough to my brother that he
put up with all the inconveniences of sleeping at
this little village, that I might carry out what he
though a mere woman’s enthusiastic fancy:
but in truth it was everything to me. After
vespers the holy man was able to give me an hour in
the church, and verily it was the opening of new life
to me. Since my light had been taken from me,
all had been utter desolate darkness before me.
He put a fresh light before me, which now, after
fifty years, I know to have been the dawn of better
sunshine than even that which had brightened my youth—­and
I thank my good God, who has never let me entirely
lose sight of it.

Very faint, almost disappointing, it seemed to me
then. I came away from my interview feeling
as if it had been vain to think there could be any
balm for a crushed heart, and yet when I awoke the
next morning, and dressed myself to hear mass before
resuming my journey, it was with the sense that there
I should meet a friend and comforter. And when
I looked at my little son, it was not only with dreary
passionate pity for the unconscious orphan, but with
a growing purpose to bring him up as his father’s
special charge,—­nay, as that from even
a greater and nearer than my Philippe.

While, as we journeyed on, I gradually dwelt less
on how piteous my arrival would be for myself, and
thought more and more of its sadness for the poor
old Marquis who had loved his nephew so much, till,
instead of merely fearing to reach Nid de Merle, I
began to look forward to it, and consider how to comfort
the poor old man; for had not my husband begged me
to be the staff of his old age, and to fill a daughter’s
place to him?

CHAPTER VII.

WIDOW AND WIFE

We had avoided Paris, coming through Troyes and Orleans,
and thus our sad strange journey lasted a full month.
Poor old M. de Nidemerle had, of course, been prepared
for our coming, and he came out in his coach to meet
us at the cross-roads. My brother saw the mourning
liveries approaching, and gave me notice. I descended
from my carriage, intending to go to him in his, but
he anticipated me; and there, in the middle of the
road, the poor old man embraced me, weeping floods
of passionate tears of grief. He was a small
man, shrunk with age, and I found him clinging to
me so like a child that I felt an almost motherly
sense of protection and tenderness towards his forlorn
old age; but my English shyness was at the moment
distressed at the sense of all the servants staring
at such a meeting, and I cried out: ‘Oh,
sir! you should not have come thus.’ ’What
can I do, but show all honour to the heroic wife of